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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27650042">until i find you again</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/zach_stone/pseuds/zach_stone'>zach_stone</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>IT (Movies - Muschietti)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Eddie Kaspbrak Lives, F/M, Fix-It, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Post-Canon, Resurrection, Stanley Uris Lives, The Turtle CAN Help Us (IT)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 20:27:27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>16,956</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27650042</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/zach_stone/pseuds/zach_stone</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>In Los Angeles, Richie keeps seeing turtles everywhere.</p><p>Somewhere else, Eddie wakes up in the cold and the dark.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Eddie Kaspbrak &amp; Stanley Uris, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Patricia Blum Uris/Stanley Uris</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>115</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>499</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p></p><div class="center">
  <p> </p>
  <p>    <i>I will love you forever; whatever happens. Until I die and after I die, and when I find my way out of the land of the dead, I’ll drift about forever, all my atoms, until I find you again.</i><br/>  </p>
</div><br/><div class="center">
  <p>—Phillip Pullman, “The Amber Spyglass”</p>
</div>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b> <em>Richie </em> </b>
</p><p>There is a turtle on the ceiling. </p><p>Richie stares at it from his vantage point, flat on his back on the floor of Bill’s home office. The turtle, formed by indents in the paint on the ceiling, is a little lopsided and wonky, but it is definitely a turtle. </p><p>“Hey, Bill,” Richie says, still looking up. “There’s a turtle on your ceiling.”</p><p>Bill, from his desk, says, “What?”</p><p>Richie points up. He hears Bill’s chair scraping the floor as he pushes it back, and then footsteps. Bill crouches down, and Richie turns his head to look at him. “You see it?” Richie says. Bill follows the line of his arm, tilting his head at a weird angle to peer up at the ceiling.</p><p>“Oh, yeah, sure,” Bill says after a moment. “I guess it does look like one, a little.” He sounds like he’s full of shit, but that’s fine. The turtle can just be Richie’s thing. He’s spent an awful lot of time this afternoon getting acquainted with Bill Denbrough’s ceiling paint. “Rich, you should probably get up off the floor,” Bill says then. “It’s gonna be murder on your back later.”</p><p>“Maybe that’s true for <em> you, </em> Big Bill, but I’m as spry as I was at thirteen,” Richie quips. He leverages himself into a sitting position and immediately feels every one of his vertebrae protest individually. <em> “Ow, </em>motherfucker,” he hisses. Bill makes an “I told you so” noise as he walks back over to his desk. “Okay, okay, maybe you’re right. No more floor wallowing for me.”</p><p>Bill just gives him a look, one that Richie has grown all too familiar with from his friends in the past two months. It pisses him the fuck off, frankly — because it’s pitying, and he doesn’t want <em> pity. </em> Especially not when he’s well aware that they all got their happy endings, a reward for the majority of their lives being absolute nightmares and their defeating a literal embodiment of evil, while Richie Tozier got a big heaping helping of heartbreak and a reminder of exactly why he’s been scared his whole life: because people like <em> him </em>don’t get fairytale endings. People like him get horror movie endings, the kind where the monster wins. But they all know that, so Richie doesn’t see why they think it’s helpful to remind him by looking at him like he’s about to break all the time. </p><p>Maybe they’d be less likely to give him those looks if he spent less time having wallowing sessions on the floor, but, you know. Baby steps. </p><p>“Are you staying the night?” Bill asks him. “Audra’s filming on location for the next week, so I could use the company. We could, I don’t know, have a guy’s night.”</p><p>Richie winces in the face of Bill’s earnest attempt to help. Bill is one of Richie’s best friends in the world, and Richie loves him, but he thinks if he tried to do a “guy’s night” he’d just end up being a giant bummer, and he can’t bring himself to inflict that on poor Bill. “I should probably just head back to my place,” Richie says. “See if my carpeted floor is any kinder on my back, you know. Gotta test out all the prime wallowing venues.”</p><p>“Richie,” Bill says. Admonishes, really. For a second, Richie is thirteen again and Bill Denbrough is the beacon that he and the rest of the Losers flock to, listening to every word he says like it’s gospel. Richie shuts up, and feels scolded, and then he gets pissed. </p><p>He wants to say, as he often wants to say, <em> you don’t get to tell me how to feel, because you left him down there, you </em> left <em> him, you made me leave him and I will never forgive you for that. </em>He screamed essentially that, but with a lot more expletives and a lot more sobbing, a day or two after everything had gone down at Neibolt. He’d just sort of lost it on all of them, right there in the inn’s lobby where they’d all been sitting and drinking. He’d smashed a whiskey glass on the carpet and stormed off to his room, and no one had tried to so much as knock on the door for twenty minutes. Then Beverly came in, and sat next to him on the bed and rubbed his back while he cried. </p><p>He’s not proud of that moment. He knows he and Bill are both thinking about it now. </p><p>Richie gets to his feet, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I’m just gonna go. I’ll see you around.”</p><p>Bill stands from his desk again to give Richie a hug, and Richie lets himself appreciate the comfort of a friendly touch, but he can’t linger too long or it all just starts to hurt. He drives the half hour back to his house, and the sun bleeds yellow and orange against the sky as it sets. He pulls into his driveway and sits in the car for a long few minutes after he’s killed the ignition. He stares at his hands on the steering wheel, the creased, worn skin at his knuckles. His hands are old, because <em> Richie </em>is old, and god but he feels it these days. Old and tired. </p><p>Richie gets out of the car and goes into his house, and he calls out, “Honey, I’m home!” to the dark emptiness that greets him. He laughs to himself. It sounds hollow. All of a sudden it’s like a kick to his chest, and this is how it keeps getting him, sneaking up on him unexpectedly and crashing down like he’s back in the quarry all over again and his mind is just one endless loop of <em> Eddie’s dead Eddie’s dead Eddie’s dead.  </em></p><p>He staggers to the couch and drops down, elbows on his knees and face in his hands. “Get it together,” he hisses to himself. “Get it the fuck together.” </p><p>It takes him a few minutes, but he manages to stop himself from going into full meltdown mode. He drags himself to the kitchen and eats some leftover takeout, cold and straight from the container. Pathetic as it is, this is a hell of a lot better than he was doing in August. When he first came back home from Derry 2.0, he barely ate, barely left his bed, and had to drink himself to sleep to avoid the nightmares. That lasted about two weeks before Bill showed up at his door with dinner and forced him to take a shower. Since then, Bill’s been pretty insistent that Richie come over often enough to prove he’s not slipping back into a grief coma again. Part of Richie begrudges him for it, but a larger part of him is grateful. It makes him feel like a functional person, at least for a few hours. Sure, when he gets home his house is still littered in dirty dishes and he has nothing but takeout in his fridge, but — at least he’s talking to people. At least he’s getting out of the house sometimes.</p><p>After dinner, Richie sits slumped on the couch with the TV playing mindlessly for a few hours. He fields texts from his friends so no one will think he’s gone off the deep end. Bill says something about a rain check on a “guy’s night,” or having him over once Audra gets home. Mike has sent him a picture of some novelty T-shirt from whatever touristy place he’s visiting at the moment, with a little <em> thinking of you, man! </em>underneath the image. Ben and Bev both ask how he’s feeling, and he ignores those for now because there’s no way he’s in the right headspace to properly bullshit about that. Then he gets into an argument with his agent about his continued leave of absence.</p><p><em> Let me at least book you a voiceover cameo or something. A spot in a game show. Literally anything, Rich, or your career’s dead in the water, </em>Natalie texts him. </p><p>Richie grits his teeth. <em> not exactly the death im concerned with right now nat, </em>he types back with shaky fingers. </p><p>Natalie types for a while before finally replying, <em> Of course Rich. I’m not trying to be insensitive. Just trying to keep you afloat.  </em></p><p>Richie cringes a little at her choice of words, but he just sends her a thumbs up emoji and leaves it at that. He knows he can’t avoid the reality of his job forever, but god, it feels fucking pointless nowadays. How anyone can expect him to get onstage and make stupid jokes when he keeps getting gut-punched by the worst grief of his life is just — <em> that’s </em> the real fucking joke. Richie feels like a hollowed-out version of his old self, and he has no idea how he’s supposed to bounce back. He’s not even sure he’d <em> want </em>to bounce back, not to whatever he’s been doing his whole career. But that’s way more than he’s capable of thinking about at this time of night.</p><p>Eventually, he feels exhausted enough to stumble to bed. </p><p>He tosses his glasses onto the bedside table and is about to turn off his lamp when he notices something on the ceiling. In the blurry shadows of the popcorn texture above him, he can swear he sees —</p><p>A fucking turtle. Again. </p><p>“You following me, little guy?” he asks aloud. Then he huffs out a laugh. “Now I’m talking to my ceiling. Alright. Are you there, God? It’s me, Richie. Who knew God was a turtle? What am I talking about. Fucking stupid.” He scrubs at his eyes, but the turtle-ish shape still remains. Honestly, Richie doesn’t have the mental energy to find this weird. He’s probably just got turtles on the brain for some reason. He’s pretty sure one of the shows he pretended to watch while zoning out on the couch earlier was a nature documentary.</p><p>“Well, turtle-god, I hope you enjoy watching me sleep, ya freak. How’s life in turtle heaven? I think —” He pauses, clearing his throat around the sudden lump there. “I think you got a buddy of mine up there with you. If you see Eddie, uh, tell him….”</p><p>Richie knows he could just say it. He’s talking to paint on his fucking ceiling. No one will hear this but him, and it’s nothing he doesn’t already know. It’s nothing he hasn’t admitted already — even if it was too little, too late, and not to the person he should’ve said it to when he had the chance.</p><p>He sighs, leans over and grabs his glasses to stick them back onto his face. As he does, the ceiling comes into clearer view, and the illusion of a turtle vanishes. Richie doesn’t know why this makes the pit in his stomach feel even more hollow. </p><p>“Tell him I said hey,” he mutters to no one, and clicks off the light.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <b><em>Eddie</em> </b>
</p><p>Before anything else, Eddie becomes aware of Richie’s voice. It’s soft and close, like Richie is murmuring in his ear. Something about a turtle? Eddie can’t quite make out the words. He blinks his eyes open blearily, and all he can see is darkness. He feels cold and clammy, and it’s the shivering that brings him all the way back to consciousness. It takes several seconds for his eyes to adjust to the dim, greenish light that seems to be emanating from the very walls of the cavernous space he’s in. Eddie can’t recall, at first, where he is or why. His hands touch the gritty stone floor and his head presses back against the rock and then he remembers.</p><p>
  <em> Pennywise — the ritual — the Deadlights — Richie — </em>
</p><p>Eddie startles and whips his head around, but Richie isn’t next to him. Richie isn’t anywhere that he can see, despite having heard his voice so close only a moment ago. Eddie’s breath is coming in short, panicked bursts, and he presses a hand to his chest to try to calm himself. For some reason, the soft (if now grimy) material of his t-shirt surprises him. He looks down at himself. He’s sort of filthy, stains of sewer water and god knows what other shit covering his shirt and hoodie and the creases of his hands. That shouldn’t be surprising, though… should it? A crumpled leather jacket is in his lap, and he doesn’t exactly remember how it got there. Eddie’s head fucking hurts. </p><p>Something else crosses his mind, and he tongues at the inside of his cheek. He’s doubly shocked to find the skin whole and unbroken. Not even a scar, let alone the amateur stitch-up job that he <em> knows </em>was there when he entered the sewers. He peels the soggy gauze off the outside of his cheek and runs his fingers over the smooth patch of skin there. What the fuck.</p><p>He eases himself to his feet, staggering slightly and leaning against the rock he was propped up against before. The cavern is quiet, aside from the occasional <em> drip drip drip </em>of water from one of the jagged stalactites on the stone ceiling. He doesn’t hear any of the others. He doesn’t hear the clown, or his friends, or anything at all. </p><p>“Guys?” he calls out nervously, cringing at the way his voice echoes around the space. “Richie?” </p><p>No response. But Eddie is so <em> sure </em> he just heard him…</p><p>Where did everyone go? What happened, after he got Richie out of the Deadlights? Eddie can’t remember. And now that he really looks around, the place looks ravaged, even more debris and decay than he remembers seeing when they came in. Did Eddie actually kill It? Did his friends leave? Why would they have left him behind?</p><p>Richie wouldn’t do that, Eddie tells himself, even as he starts to shiver harder. Richie <em> didn’t </em>do that, because Eddie just heard him speaking, and he’s probably fucking around somewhere in the cavern, looking for a way out. Eddie just has to find him.</p><p>He moves away from the shelter of the rock and starts to make his way around the cavern, stumbling over the uneven ground. There’s a chill in the air, so he pulls the leather jacket on over his hoodie. “Richie?” he calls. There are several openings along the edges of the cavern, all of them caved in. His heartbeat starts to ratchet up the longer he searches, though it’s only a few minutes, and visions of avalanches and his friends all crushed to death in the ensuing collapse start to flood his mind. The air in the cavern is tangy with something like iron, or rust. It tastes like blood.</p><p>He hears shuffling from the mouth of another opening, this one the furthest away from where he started. Eddie approaches it slowly, his feet squeaking inside his sneakers as his shoes get more damp. The greenish glow is stronger here, like there’s a light source coming in from somewhere far away. Eddie peers into the opening, and sees a long tunnel that stretches out into a blackness he can’t see beyond.</p><p>“Rich?” he calls out. </p><p>There is more shuffling, and Eddie scrambles back, suddenly on edge. A figure comes out of the darkness, and Eddie yelps in shock on instinct as they move into the light.</p><p>It’s not Richie. This man is shorter than Richie, and wearing a soft-looking cardigan that’s starkly out of place in the dank underbelly of the sewers. He’s familiar to Eddie, because Eddie looked him up briefly on Facebook while sitting in his car outside the Jade. But he’s also familiar in a different way — in the way that someone from childhood is familiar, someone who you shared a blood oath with. Someone you never should have forgotten at all.</p><p>“Stan?” Eddie manages.</p><p>Stanley Uris blinks at Eddie, looking just as surprised to see him. “Eddie,” he says. Not a question, but sighed out almost in relief.</p><p>It doesn’t make sense that Stan is here, in the sewers. It takes Eddie a moment to place why — his mind is still foggy, everything coming back to the surface sluggishly. But he remembers the fortune cookies: <em> GUESS STANLEY COULD NOT CUT IT. </em> He remembers Beverly, speaking in a choked voice on the phone. The woman on the other end of the line — <em> his wrists… in the bathroom…  </em></p><p>If Stan is here, and Eddie is here with him, that can only mean one thing.</p><p>“Oh, fuck,” Eddie says, “I’m dead!”</p><p>Stan doesn’t say anything at first, just looks at Eddie a little sadly, and Eddie immediately begins to flip his shit. He starts pacing in the narrow opening in the cavern wall.</p><p>“This is so — this is fucking <em> bullshit! </em>I killed It, I fucking speared that motherfucker, it was supposed to be over!” He looks down at his hands, at the gleaming silver of his wedding band on his left, and he wrenches it off and pitches it angrily away from him. It pings off one of the walls of the tunnel and rolls away into the darkness, out of sight. Stan follows the movement with his eyes before looking back to Eddie, his brow creasing a little in concern. </p><p>“Eddie,” he says again, too gentle this time. Like he’s trying not to spook a rabid animal. Which, fair enough — Eddie feels kind of rabid right now.</p><p>“I — I had fucking <em> plans, </em> Stanley!” he exclaims. He’s mildly horrified to feel his throat constricting, like he’s about to cry. “I was gonna change my whole fucking life after this, I was gonna —” He thinks of all the things he was going to change, getting a divorce and quitting his shitty job and maybe getting some fucking therapy, and — and <em> Richie, </em> he was going to tell Richie…</p><p>Cold, slimy dread fills his gut. “Oh shit. Richie. Where is he, have you seen him? Fuck, is he dead too? No, no, no. I was supposed to save him.” Eddie feels the first treacherous tear escape and slide down the side of his nose. “God <em> damn </em>it!”</p><p>“Eddie!” Stan says, louder now, and Eddie finally shuts his mouth, staring at Stan with wide, panicked eyes. He feels like he’s vibrating. Stan sighs, shaking his head a little bit. “Listen, I don’t know what, uh, <em> any </em>of that was about, but — Richie’s not here. I haven’t seen anyone else.” </p><p>“But — but I heard him,” Eddie says weakly. “I heard him talking to me. Or… I thought I did.” He drags a hand over his face. “How the fuck did you get here, anyway?”</p><p>“I… don’t know,” Stan says. He looks around. “The last thing I remember is, um. Dying. And then next thing I know, I’m sitting in this dark tunnel, and I heard — a voice from further in. I was going to follow it, but then I heard you yelling, so I waited.”</p><p>“You heard a voice?” Eddie asks. “Was it Richie?”</p><p>Stan smiles sadly. “No, it wasn’t Richie.”</p><p>“Well, how do you know?” Eddie demands. “I mean, you haven’t heard his voice since we were kids, maybe it <em> was </em>him and you just didn’t recognize —”</p><p>“I know it wasn’t Richie,” Stan interjects. “It was my wife.”</p><p>Eddie gapes slightly before his mouth snaps shut. “Oh,” he says in a small voice. “You… I mean, I didn’t hear a woman’s voice. Besides Richie, I only heard you.”</p><p>“Yeah.” Stan runs a hand along his jaw, expression pensive. “I’m not really sure what’s happening, or why we’re here.” He meets Eddie’s gaze again, and it’s crazy how he looks just like Eddie remembers. The face of his childhood friend hidden behind decades of growing up that Eddie didn’t get to see. “It’s nice to see you though.”</p><p>“Fuck,” Eddie says, overwhelmed, and staggers forward to meet Stan in a clumsy, emotional embrace. Eddie’s not really a hugger in his adult life, doesn’t have a ton of close friends he would feel comfortable hugging anyway, but there’s something about reconnecting with any of the Losers — he craves physical contact with them. It was strongest with Richie, but it’s true with all of them, and with Stan, one of his oldest friends, Eddie finds himself clinging tight. He can’t stop thinking about the phone call in the restaurant parking lot, Bev’s choked voice on the phone with Patricia Uris. He presses his face against Stan’s shoulder and says again, a little tearfully, “Fuck, Stan.”</p><p>“I know,” Stan says, hugging him back just as tight. When they finally let go of each other, Eddie can’t help but stare, feeling melancholy about how Stan ended up here. It must be written all over his face, because Stan frowns slightly and says, “What, what’s that look for?”</p><p>Eddie winces apologetically. “When you didn’t show up at the reunion… we called your wife.”</p><p>“Oh.” Stan looks down at his feet. “Eddie, I. I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have —” He cuts himself off, swallowing roughly. “I was just scared,” he whispers.</p><p>Eddie thinks about standing in the corner of the Neibolt house, watching as the horrible spider creature that wore Stan’s face tried to eat Richie’s head off. He lets out a shaky breath. “Yeah, I really, really get that.” With a grimace, he adds, “If it makes you feel any better, being brave is what got me fucking killed, so maybe we would’ve ended up here either way, huh? Fuck, I really hope the others made it out. They’d probably be here if they didn’t, right?”</p><p>“Maybe,” Stan says. “I… have a theory.”</p><p>“I thought you said you didn’t know what was going on?”</p><p>“That’s why it’s a <em> theory,” </em> Stan says impatiently. “Listen, you heard Richie’s voice, right? And I heard Patty. What exactly did Richie say?”</p><p>“Uh, I couldn’t hear him very well,” Eddie says. “I was still waking up. Something about turtles, I think? On the ceiling?” </p><p>“Turtles,” Stan says, nodding to himself. “Patty said something about them, too. I used to have these strange dreams all the time, after I forgot about Derry. I could never remember the details, but I’d wake up from them thinking <em> the turtle can’t help us.”  </em></p><p><em> “The </em>turtle? Like a specific one?” Eddie says, frowning.</p><p>“I didn’t really know what it meant,” Stan says. “I’m still not certain. But I don’t think it’s a coincidence, what we heard. What if… what if the turtle <em> can </em>help us now? What if it’s trying to help call us back home?”</p><p>“What the fuck are you talking about?” Eddie asks. “We’re <em> dead, </em>Stan.”</p><p>“Maybe we don’t have to stay that way,” Stan says. He gestures down the tunnel, at the faint green light swallowed up by darkness. “Patty’s voice came from further down there. I think we’re meant to follow the voices. Maybe it’s using the people who love us to lead us back.”</p><p>Eddie flushes warmly at the thought. “You think <em>Richie </em>is —” he starts, and then cuts himself off, unable to finish his sentence —  to compare Stan’s <em>wife</em> calling Stan back from the grave to <em>Richie, </em>doing the same for Eddie. “Never mind that, are you saying we should just walk down a dark tunnel with no end in sight because we’re hearing <em>voices? </em>What if it’s the clown? What if it’s a trap?”</p><p>“Do you have a better idea?” Stan retorts. “We’re already dead. What’ve we got to lose?”</p><p>Stan was always annoyingly good at arguing when they were kids. That, and Eddie was always pretty gullible when it came to things Stan told him. He spoke with a sort of certainty that just made Eddie believe most of the things he said, even though he probably didn’t know what the fuck he was talking about any more than any of them did at thirteen. </p><p>Before Eddie can respond, he hears something from far off, deep in the tunnel. A familiar cadence, fading into clarity like a song fading in on the radio. “Shh!” he says, flapping his hand at Stan. “Listen, do you hear that? It’s Richie!”</p><p>Richie’s voice is distant, but his words suddenly become clear. <em> “If you see Eddie, uh, tell him…” </em>His voice trails off, and he doesn’t say anything else.</p><p>“Tell me <em> what?” </em>Eddie calls aloud. There’s no response. Eddie’s chest hurts. He looks over at Stan and says beseechingly, “Did you hear him?”</p><p>“Kind of,” Stan says. “When you pointed it out. Not as well as I could hear Patty, but… that’s probably because he’s not talking to me.” He raises his eyebrows. “So? What do you say? Don’t you want to get back to your life?”</p><p>Eddie — thinks about that, for a second. Going back to the life he’s been living, ever since he left Derry as a kid. He laughs hollowly. “No,” he says honestly, “no, I really don’t.” But he thinks about Richie, gripping his wrist and telling Eddie he’s brave; Richie, blinking dazedly up at him from the cavern floor. Maybe this is a trap, but Stan’s right — it beats sitting around in a demolished clown lair waiting for an end. “But I have shit to get back to anyway. Fuck it. Let’s walk.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>thanks for reading! i started writing this fic in october 2019, gave up on it for over a year, and finally decided to finish it. the fic is pretty much complete, so i'm planning to release the rest of the chapters over the next few days. hope y'all aren't sick of the good old fashioned canon fix-it, because i realized just how much i missed writing them, and here we are.</p><p>find me on twitter @hermanngottiieb</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Richie gets some unexpected visitors. Eddie hears something he wishes he hadn't.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>
    <em>Richie </em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>A couple weeks later, Richie is woken up by a rapid knocking on his front door. He groans, scrubbing his hands over his face, and then slaps blindly at his bedside table for his glasses and phone. It’s just after ten in the morning, which is earlier than Richie’s woken up in months. He groans again and staggers out of bed, his eyes still mostly closed, and opens the front door. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ben and Beverly are standing on his doorstep. “Hi!” Bev says cheerfully, like she hasn’t just awoken him from an admittedly shitty sleep fifteen seconds ago. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What the fuck,” he mumbles. “What’re you doing here?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do we have to have a reason to visit one of our best friends?” Ben says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie squints at him. “When you live on the other side of the country, yes.” He opens the door wider, so they can both come in, feeling totally blindsided but not conscious enough to really do anything but go along with it. “Why are you here?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bill called me,” Bev admits with a guilty sort of smile. “He said you’ve been ignoring his calls the last few days, he’s just a little worried about you.” She glances around Richie’s living room, with its piles of dirty dishes and laundry and a vague miasma of depression. Her smile fades. “And it looks like he was right to be. Richie, when’s the last time you left the house?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was just at Bill’s the other day!” Richie says, crossing his arms defensively. “I’m — I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>fine, </span>
  </em>
  <span>alright, tell Bill to stop fucking hovering.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Richie,” Bev says gently. Richie closes his eyes, bracing himself for her pity. “You can’t keep living like this, honey. You know Eddie wouldn’t want —”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His eyes snap open like he’s a sleeper agent and “Eddie” is his activation phrase. “Don’t,” he says, his voice coming out harsh enough that he even startles himself. “I </span>
  <em>
    <span>don’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>know, actually, and neither do you. I got to see Eddie for like forty-eight fucking hours and we barely even talked that whole time. The longest conversation I had with him was when he was bleeding out under my fucking hands. So don’t — don’t tell me what he’d want, okay, I didn’t get the </span>
  <em>
    <span>chance </span>
  </em>
  <span>to know what he’d want and now I never fucking will!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The air between them hangs heavy with the silence that follows. Richie’s chest heaves slightly as he takes a few ragged breaths. He doesn’t think he’s ever gone from mostly asleep to angry this fast before. Bev is looking at him with nothing but worry on her face, which almost makes it worse. He wishes someone would yell right back at him one of these days. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ben moves forward, into Richie’s line of sight, and puts a hand on his arm. Richie’s too worn out to even bother trying to shrug it off. He just meets Ben’s gaze — those kind eyes, creased with smile lines, looking at Richie with an earnest intensity that always sort of makes him want to shrink away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We know you’re hurting, man,” Ben says. “You’re carrying all this grief all by yourself, but you don’t have to. You’re not the only one who misses him. We all loved him, and we all love you, and even if we don’t know what Eddie might’ve wanted, I know he loved you. He wouldn’t want you to do this to yourself forever.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His words make Richie feel a little bit like he’s been sucker-punched, but he tries to let the rest of what Ben’s saying sink in. He lets some of the tension out of his shoulders. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t have to talk to us about it, if you don’t want to,” Bev says. “But you should talk to Bill, or Mike, or — whoever you’d feel more comfortable with.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I…” Richie says, his voice hoarse. “I just want to talk to </span>
  <em>
    <span>him.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>He knows it’s pathetic the moment it slips from his mouth, he can see it in Ben and Bev’s faces. He shakes his head, huffs out a weary breath. “Sorry for yelling at you. It’s really nice that you guys came out. I — if you can believe it, guys, I’m not really doing so hot right now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They both give him pity chuckles, which he appreciates, honestly; he’s a little too raw to handle much more emotional vulnerability this early in the day. Then Ben’s hand on his shoulder slides up to tug Richie into a hug, and Bev is hugging him from the other side, and he slumps into their embrace. For once, he doesn’t force himself to pull away, he just lets it hurt. They stand there in Richie’s trashed living room so long that Richie starts to sway on his feet a little.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Have you talked to Patty at all?” Bev asks him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not since the funeral,” Richie says, muffled against Ben’s shoulder. While thinking of Stan doesn’t hurt in exactly the same way as thinking of Eddie does, it’s still not something Richie feels inclined to dwell on.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It might help to talk to her. I think, you know, it’d be nice for her to talk to someone who gets what she’s going through.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie frowns. “I didn’t — I didn’t lose my </span>
  <em>
    <span>husband, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Bev.” He feels his face flush tratoriously as he says it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know,” Bev says gently. “I just meant… well, I think out of all of us, you get it the most.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s not like his friends don’t know — if his complete breakdown over Eddie wasn’t telling enough on its own, he told all of them that he was gay before everyone parted ways from Derry back in August. It took him a month to work up the nerve to tell them how he felt about Eddie, but they’d all known by then, anyway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The funny thing is (and it isn’t funny, not really), Richie hasn’t talked to Patty but he </span>
  <em>
    <span>did </span>
  </em>
  <span>try to talk to Myra Kaspbrak, very briefly. After Bill and Mike had broken the news to her about Eddie, Richie buried all his selfish, irrational feelings of jealousy and resentment and tried to call her on the phone. He wasn’t sure what exactly he was going to say — apologize, maybe, or just talk to someone else who loved Eddie, not that he was going to tell her about </span>
  <em>
    <span>that </span>
  </em>
  <span>— but it hadn’t mattered. She didn’t want to talk to him, or any of the Losers, and had cut off contact completely, immediately. She hadn’t invited them to Eddie’s funeral either, which Richie can’t think about or he’ll freak the fuck out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s not that Richie didn’t get why she was pissed, and he didn’t really </span>
  <em>
    <span>want</span>
  </em>
  <span> to talk to Myra anyway, but that was enough to put him off the idea of commiserating with a widow. And talking to </span>
  <em>
    <span>Stan’s </span>
  </em>
  <span>widow, who he has met and who seemed to genuinely like the Losers, who doesn’t blame them… it feels like a lot for Richie’s limited emotional willpower. To appease Bev, he says, “Yeah, I’ll think about it, I guess.” He punctuates it with a yawn so wide his jaw cracks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Smiling a little, Bev leans back to look him in the eye. “Did we wake you up?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie snorts indelicately. “What gave it away?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can make coffee,” Ben says, slapping Richie on the back and releasing him. Richie nods vaguely, making his way over to the couch and flopping down onto it. Bev follows Ben into the kitchen, and Richie tips his head against the back of the couch and tells himself he’s just going to let his eyes rest for a moment. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wakes up again some time after noon with a blanket draped over his lap and a killer kink in his neck. He winces and sits up straight, bleary-eyed. He can hear Ben and Bev talking quietly in the kitchen. His living room appears to have been tidied. Someone’s even lit some old Bath and Body Works candle he doesn’t remember buying. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s instantly fucking embarrassing, that his friends had to see him like this </span>
  <em>
    <span>(again)</span>
  </em>
  <span> and that they keep having to scrape him up from the bottom of the hole he’s dug for himself. He gets up off the couch, wincing and grumbling the whole way, and shuffles shamefully into the kitchen. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ben and Bev stop talking and look up the moment he pokes his head around the corner. “Hey, sleepyhead,” Bev says cheerfully.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Coffee’s still on, if you want some,” Ben says, gesturing to Richie’s coffee pot on the counter. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thanks,” Richie says, scrubbing the back of his head. Jesus, this is so awkward. This is why he never tried to make friends in adulthood. He doesn’t know how to fucking talk to anyone anymore. He doesn’t want to meet their eyes and see how they’re judging him, pitying him, wondering why he’s such a fuckup —</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He forces himself to really look at them, and there’s none of that in their eyes. Just a kind of genuine concern and affection he can’t remember the last time he was on the receiving end of. He takes a deep breath. “Thanks for, uh, cleaning up. You didn’t have to do that.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We know,” Ben says. “We just wanted to.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie nods, chewing on his bottom lip. “Yeah. I. Uh, thanks for wanting to. For not, you know, giving up on me, I guess.” He laughs humorlessly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Losers gotta stick together,” Bev intones, clearly imitating Bill’s solemn delivery. She ruins the effect a little by cracking a smile at the end, biting the tip of her tongue.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie laughs, and it’s real this time. A little bit of the weight he’s been carrying in his chest lightens. Ben was right — he doesn’t have to carry this alone. He can let his friends help him carry it. Maybe — maybe they couldn’t have carried Eddie out of there, and Richie doesn’t want to dwell on that any more than he has to, but they can carry this. They can carry his memory. Maybe that will just have to be enough.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The three of them end up outside, in Richie’s pool. At first, they’re just dragging Richie into the backyard to get some fresh air, and then Bev sneaks up behind him and shoves him into the deep end, fully clothed. The shock of it is bracing — it’s early November, and that doesn’t mean much in Los Angeles but the water’s still cold. “You dick!” he yells once he surfaces. “You’re lucky I left my phone inside!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bev cracks up, and then she and Ben splash in after him. For a moment, he’s reminded of the quarry, and his stomach lurches, but then Ben whacks him over the head with an ancient pool noodle that’s been floating around long enough that the foam is flaking off, and he’s distracted again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey!” Richie says, and he’s almost surprised to hear the laughter in his own voice. “This means war, bitch!” He grabs a pool noodle of his own and uses it to blow a stream of water directly into Ben’s face. It’s childish and ridiculous, which is exactly what he needs. It still feels weird to laugh these days, but it’s easier today than it’s been in months. It feels good, to laugh with his friends.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bev and Ben tell him they’re staying at Bill’s house “for as long as he’ll put up with us,” which Richie understands to mean that they’re staying as long as Richie needs them to. He shoves back the knee-jerk response to tell them he’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>fine, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he doesn’t need to rely on anyone else, because it’s honestly kind of relieving to have more people around who he doesn’t have to pretend with. By the time his friends leave that evening, Richie thinks he’s probably taken more strides toward some kind of emotional healing today than he has in most of his adult life. Who needs therapy?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He winces at his own thought. He definitely needs therapy. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Despite having one of the better days he’s had in a while, all things considered, Richie still finds himself in just the right kind of mood to put on his sad songs playlist and stare at the ceiling for a while. It’s all the usual stupid shit, songs that make him think of his early teen years and the staticky sound of the boombox in the clubhouse. He pushes his glasses up to his forehead and huffs out a sigh, scrubbing his hands over his face. The pain feels almost manageable, for the moment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then the next song fades in, and Richie doesn’t remember adding this one to his playlist. The guitar riff plays, and then a voice starts to warble, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Imagine me and you, I do, I think about you day and night, it’s only right… </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie flinches a little, sitting up. He grabs his phone off the coffee table and stares at the song on the screen: </span>
  <em>
    <span>Happy Together by the Turtles. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Fucking turtles again. If some otherworldly entity is trying to send Richie a message, he’s not sure what it’s supposed to be, except that </span>
  <em>
    <span>I can’t see me lovin’ nobody but you for all my life </span>
  </em>
  <span>hits a little too close to home. He feels the familiar burning sensation behind his eyes and it’s been a few days since he really let himself cry, so he doesn’t try to stop the tears this time. At least the song is only three minutes long.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He feels like a wrung-out sponge by the end of it. He turns off the music and lets his eyes fall closed. So much for his good day.</span>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Eddie</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>“How long have we been walking?” Eddie asks, breaking their latest stretch of silence. It’s been a somewhat uncomfortable one, following the faint sounds of Patty’s despondent voice, carrying on a conversation with Stan’s mother that they could only hear one side of. Eddie can’t really hear it very well when Patty’s voice floats through the long tunnel, but he could tell from Stan’s expression that it was a difficult conversation to listen to. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No idea,” Stan says. “Couple hours? Maybe longer. I… I don’t think time is the same for us. I mean, I showed up here the same time as you, but we died at different times. And based on what I heard Patty saying earlier, it seems like it’s been a while since I died.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That makes Eddie frown, his pace faltering. “A while? What do you mean, a while? How long?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan shakes his head. “I don’t know for sure. Weeks, at least. Maybe a couple months? I heard her mention my dad’s birthday being soon, and that’s in November.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie comes to a complete stop. “It’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>November?”</span>
  </em>
  <span> he exclaims. “But — what the fuck! I just died a few hours ago! It’s fucking August!” Stan shrugs, which only makes Eddie more frustrated. “Why the fuck are you so calm about this? What if it takes us years to get out of here and everyone’s aged a fucking decade except us?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know, Eddie,” Stan says. He sounds tired. “Maybe bringing two guys back from the dead takes a lot of time, I don’t understand this any more than you do, alright? I’m just trying to focus on getting out of this tunnel.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie sighs. He knows he shouldn’t jump down Stan’s throat, but he can’t help it — he’s on a razor thin edge of sanity right now. “Sorry,” he mutters, kicking a stray rock along the path. The idea of time passing so quickly while they’re trapped down here unsettles him. His mind starts wandering down terrible </span>
  <em>
    <span>what ifs </span>
  </em>
  <span>— if Stan’s right, and Richie loves him </span>
  <em>
    <span>like that, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and that’s why his voice is leading Eddie out, what happens if Richie moves on? Will Eddie disappear forever before he even makes it out of here?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As if summoned by his thoughts, Eddie hears a faint staticky sound growing louder, the tell-tale noises that indicate Richie’s voice is about to fill the tunnel. He tries to make out a voice, but it sounds… strange. Different. It takes him a moment to figure out what he’s hearing: it’s music. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Imagine me and you, I do… </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“You hear that?” he asks Stan, picking up his pace a little bit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is that…” Stan says, but he trails off when another noise joins in the song.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a faint, snuffling, whimpery sound. Eddie recognizes it almost immediately, and it makes his stomach drop. Richie’s crying. The sounds are louder than the other times Eddie’s heard Richie’s voice in the tunnel so far, bouncing off the rock walls, and Eddie feels like he might start crying himself. He’s never heard Richie sound so… anguished. It’s awful. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I — I don’t want to hear this,” Eddie says, shaking his head. He feels sick.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Eddie, it’s okay, it’ll be over soon,” Stan says sympathetically, but Eddie isn’t listening to him, </span>
  <em>
    <span>can’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>listen to him over the awful sounds Richie’s making.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stop, please stop,” Eddie says, looking up like he can bargain with whatever is doing this to them. “Fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>stop! </span>
  </em>
  <span>What the fuck is the point of showing me this? Just stop it!” He claps his hands over his ears, but it does little to muffle the noise. The song is sweet, an old love song, and that hurts almost as much as Richie’s crying does. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie drops to his knees, crouching there on the dirty ground with his back against the wall, his eyes squeezed shut, just waiting for it to end.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Finally, the sounds fade out, and the tunnel is quiet again. Eddie becomes aware of the fact that Stan’s sitting on the ground next to him, a comforting hand on his shoulder. Eddie tips his head back against the rough stone wall, keeping his eyes closed. He scrubs his hands over his face, smearing a few of his own tears into his skin. He’s a little embarrassed that all he’s done since he and Stan found each other is lose his shit over and over. Stan deserves a better companion than that through all of this. It’s not like Stan hasn’t also heard someone he loves crying their eyes out while he’s helpless to do anything about it; Eddie shouldn’t be the only one getting comforted in here.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tell me about your wife,” Eddie says quietly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hm?” Stan hums, sounding a bit surprised.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie opens his eyes and looks sidelong at Stan, who is watching him with concern. “Patty. Tell me about her. How’d you guys meet?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan smiles like it’s instinct, the first genuine smile Eddie’s seen from him. He looks even more like the boy Eddie grew up with when he smiles. “Freshman year of college,” Stan says. “We were both at one of those new student mixers, and we made eye contact from across the lawn.” He laughs a little, his eyes glazed over with memory. “It sounds so cliche, but… you ever see someone and you just </span>
  <em>
    <span>know, </span>
  </em>
  <span>they’re supposed to be a part of your life somehow?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What, like soulmates?” Eddie asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan looks at him sidelong. “Are you going to make fun of me if I say yes?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie thinks about what he felt when he saw Richie from across the room in the restaurant. The way his stomach swooped, flooded with even more butterflies than he’d felt when he saw Bill and Mike again. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh, it’s you, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he’d thought, before he had even fully processed that it was </span>
  <em>
    <span>Richie. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He was scared shitless by everything he’d felt all at once. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Eddie whispers. “No, I know what you mean.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We married young,” Stan says. “Before we were twenty-one. All our friends thought we were crazy, but we just knew. She’d have fit right in with the Losers Club, back in the day. She’s so funny. She calls my car ‘Sedanley.’” He looks over at Eddie, beaming as he says it, and Eddie cracks a bemused smile. Stan always did have a weird sense of humor. “And she’s so smart, and kind. I don’t think I’ve ever loved anyone the way I love her. Except maybe all of you guys, you know. Back then.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie feels like he might start crying again. “She sounds really great,” he says, wiping at his eye with the heel of his hand again. He thinks he’s cried more since he got to Derry than he’s cried in his entire adult life, which is something he’ll have to unpack once he’s no longer dead. He reaches over to squeeze Stan’s knee. “I hope I get to meet her.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Me too,” Stan says, looking a little misty-eyed himself. He sighs, and then shoots Eddie a knowing look. “What about you? Tell me what’s been going on in your life for the past couple decades.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie scoffs. “Fuck, no. It’s pathetic. Maybe later.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan, to Eddie’s relief, doesn’t push it. But then he says, “Okay, then why don’t you tell me about Richie?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know Richie,” Eddie says, frowning.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know Richie as a twerpy kid,” Stan says. “What’s he like now?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s exactly the fucking same!” Eddie exclaims, and Stan laughs. “I’m serious, the ‘your mom’ jokes and everything! But he’s fucking tall now, and like, his shoulders —” Eddie spreads his hands to the width he estimates Richie’s shoulders to be. He might be exaggerating a little bit. “And he’s, like… he was always looking out for me. The whole time we were back. He was always making sure I was okay. And.” Eddie’s voice gives out abruptly. He clears his throat. “I think — I think he stayed with me. When I was dying. He stayed with me.” Eddie picks at the sleeve of the leather jacket. Richie’s jacket. What he used to try to staunch the bleeding. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That doesn’t surprise me,” Stan says. “He would’ve done anything for you back then.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Eddie murmurs. “He’s… he’s just the same as he always was, you know? In all the ways that matter. He’s really good, Stan.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey,” Stan says. “You’re going to see him again. And I’m going to see my wife. Okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie nods. “I sure fucking hope so,” he says. He’s still thinking about the possibility of Richie moving on and leaving Eddie stranded down here, but after hearing how devastated Richie sounds right now, Eddie can’t find it in himself to wish that Richie </span>
  <em>
    <span>won’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>move on, eventually. He doesn’t want Richie to be miserable for — however the fuck long it takes to find their way out. Richie deserves to be happy, more than anything. Eddie just hopes he won’t have to keep him waiting.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They get to their feet, dusting themselves off, and turn to face the seemingly endless tunnel ahead of them. Together, they start forward again. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>thanks for reading! next chapter should be out in a few days - if you're so inclined, follow me on twitter @hermanngottiieb for updates and such. if you're also so inclined, please leave me a comment to let me know what you think!!! i really really appreciate it. see ya soon! xo</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Richie feeds some ducks. Eddie and Stan reach the end of a path.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>
    <em>Richie</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie stares at the blinking cursor in the email draft on his computer. He uncrosses and recrosses his arms, leaning back against the couch and breathing out a short huff through his nose. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The email draft stares right back at him: </span>
  <em>
    <span>Dear Patty, </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>That’s it. That’s as far as he’s gotten in the three days since he first caved and asked Bev to send him Patty Uris’s email address again. He has no idea what he’s supposed to say — </span>
  <em>
    <span>Hi Patty, Richie Tozier here. Sorry I’ve ignored you since your husband’s funeral, but I was hoping you could let me cry on your shoulder about my dead childhood crush? </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Yeah, definitely no. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s explained it to Bev a dozen times already, that it doesn’t feel appropriate for him to try to relate to someone who lost their husband, when in honesty Richie lost someone he didn’t really know anymore. But there’s more to it than that, Richie realizes, as he has a standoff with his Gmail draft. He’s afraid that if he were to look at Patty, he’d see what he saw at the funeral that spooked him so bad: a reflection of his own grief, the weight of it, in someone else. It’s too raw, even all these months later, to face it head on. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sighing, Richie shuts his laptop and pushes it away from himself. He checks the time and groans, pushing himself to his feet. It’s December, and Bev and Ben are in town again, this time with the excuse that LA is much nicer than Manhattan for the winter. They’re using this as a reason to drag him outside to a nearby park, so he shuffles around his house trying to make himself look presentable for the public. He slides on his leather jacket — a new one, this one brown and beat-up from the secondhand store he picked it up from, wanting something that didn’t feel so close to the one he left behind in Eddie’s lifeless lap. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Okay, </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> going down that road today. It’s barely noon. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The park is decently crowded when he gets there, and he spots Bev and Ben right away, waiting for him by the duck pond. They both wave, and he nods, keeping his hands shoved in the pockets of his jacket, shoulders hunched. It’s a gorgeous day, and there are a bunch of ducks swimming around and waddling along the shore. When Richie reaches his friends, he sees that Ben is feeding some of the ducks from a bag of frozen sweetcorn. Bev is watching him fondly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Howdy, stranger,” Richie says, letting her sling an arm around his waist for a quick, tight hug. “Fancy meeting you ’round these parts.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can’t believe you’re wearing a jacket,” Bev says. She’s wearing shorts and a tank top. “Are you cold?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie shrugs. He doesn’t feel like getting into all the reasons why the jacket feels like a security blanket, a way to hide himself a little bit. He’s here to have a nice afternoon at the pond like a well-adjusted adult. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You want some?” Ben asks, holding out the bag of corn in Richie’s direction.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie raises his eyebrows. “Uh, no thanks. I already ate.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ben snorts. “No, dummy, for the ducks. You wanna feed them?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh. I knew that.” Richie holds out a hand. “Sure.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ben tips a generous amount of corn into Richie’s palm, and Richie starts tossing it at the gaggle of ducks Ben has lured near them. They’re pretty cute. There’s something almost meditative about the whole process. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, look! A turtle,” Bev says, tapping his arm and pointing. Sure enough, a little green turtle is poking its head out of the reeds, watching the duck with beady black eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Been seeing a lot of those lately,” Richie says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh yeah?” Bev says. “Where?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“In my ceiling, mostly,” Richie says, and Bev laughs bemusedly. “Sometimes Bill’s.” He tosses one of the pieces of corn toward the turtle, and it tips its head to look at Richie instead of the ducks. Its eyes are like tiny black marbles. He feels pinned in place for a moment, weirdly </span>
  <em>
    <span>seen.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Then the turtle swims out and snaps up the corn Richie had tossed, and the moment passes. Richie exhales slowly. That was fucking weird. He throws another piece of corn at it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A shriek of laughter makes him look up. Across the pond, two young boys are feeding some more of the ducks. They can’t be more than ten years old. One of them appears to be goading the other one into letting the duck eat a piece of lettuce right out of his hand. They’re both cracking up, grabbing at each other and nearly toppling over into the mud. Something about the sight makes Richie’s throat close up with sudden emotion, and he blinks a few times.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Like she knows exactly where his mind is going, Bev rubs his arms gently. “You okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Richie says, his voice coming out a little cracked. “Just. Yeah. Thinking, I guess.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mm,” Bev hums, giving him the space to decide if he wants to elaborate.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know, I almost emailed Patty Uris this morning,” he says with a short, wry laugh. “Been trying to for days. It sucks.” He takes a breath. Lets the ache in his throat tighten and then ease again. “I don’t like thinking about it, not on purpose. I just keep, like, wondering. It’s fucking stupid. It’s been months. It doesn’t even matter, anyway.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wondering what?” Bev asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>On Richie’s other side, Ben is still feeding the ducks, but Richie knows he’s listening. This, Richie thinks, is probably something Ben’s going to be able to understand better than the rest of the Losers. He was, after all, the other member of Derry’s Pathetically Pining Middle Schoolers Club. So Richie braces himself and says, “I keep wondering if… if Eddie knew. I never told him, fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>obviously, </span>
  </em>
  <span>but I still wonder. And, I don’t know, there was that… moment. When he got me out of the Deadlights, and he was leaning over me like that, and I thought —” He breaks off with a damp laugh, and then clears his throat. His smile feels thin and false on his face. “I thought maybe he was going to kiss me. Or maybe he already had, you know, to get me out. I thought he was going to do it again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh,” Bev says. Richie hasn’t told any of them that particular detail before. “Richie…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know he didn’t,” Richie says, still keeping that grim smile on his face. “I’m not an idiot. But, I don’t know. It makes me wonder. Like, what’s worse? If he had no fucking clue and he died before I got to tell him, or…” All of a sudden, the words start to choke him, and he can barely force himself to say, “or if he felt the same way, if he </span>
  <em>
    <span>knew, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and we could’ve… if he hadn’t died, we could’ve.... Fuck. I think that’s definitely worse, actually, answered my own dumb question.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey,” Bev says. “It’s not dumb. Come on, come here.” She sweeps the remaining corn in his hand onto the ground so she can pull him into a proper hug. “It’s not dumb,” she repeats.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s a little dumb,” Richie mumbles into the top of her head. “It’s not like I’m gonna ever know either way.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“For what it’s worth,” Ben says quietly, from next to him, “and I don’t know if this will make you feel… better, but. Anyone could see the way he looked at you. I guess I can’t say for sure about how he felt as an adult, but when we were kids… he loved you like that, Rich. Of course he did.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“God,” Richie says, feeling tears burn behind his eyes. He pulls away from Bev’s hug so he can scrub at them under his glasses. “Fucking hell. Does this ever get easier?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Over his shoulder, Bev and Ben share a look. “It will,” Ben says. “It just takes time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie thinks about how Ben hung onto the yearbook page with Bev’s signature on it for years, how even after he forgot her he couldn’t let go of that piece of her; how it ached like a phantom missing limb. He can’t help but wonder if Ben is bullshitting him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think you’re bullshitting me,” he tells Ben.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ben laughs slightly. “I’m not saying it goes away,” he says. “You just learn to live with it. Eventually it doesn’t hurt as bad. And you can focus on the good parts.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What fucking good parts,” Richie asks helplessly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ben shrugs. “Being able to love the person. Getting the chance to. Whether or not it was requited… I always thought just the love itself was nice.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie huffs, smiling a little despite himself. “Yeah, okay, you fucking cornball.” He lets the idea settle in his chest, though, and he finds that he can live with it. It </span>
  <em>
    <span>is </span>
  </em>
  <span>nice, to be able to love Eddie. Even now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the pond, the turtle slips, unnoticed, back under the surface.</span>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Eddie</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s been — Eddie isn’t sure how long. Hours, days, months, maybe. Time means nothing when the walls all look the same, slimy stone and concrete tinged with the green light that comes from nowhere, and the only things to mark the journey are the periodic voices of Richie and Patty echoing from somewhere ahead. Eddie and Stan have been following the path, following the voices, long enough that it feels endless. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think we’re getting close to the end,” Stan says. “The air feels different.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It does, though Eddie didn’t notice it until Stan pointed it out. It feels crisper, less dank and swampy. Like they’re surfacing. Eddie pulls Richie’s jacket tighter around himself against the sudden chill that shivers through him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve been thinking,” Eddie says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh oh,” Stan says, a faint note of amusement in his voice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck off,” Eddie says without heat. “I’ve been thinking, why us? I mean, we’re not the only people the clown killed, not by a longshot. Why are we the only ones coming back?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan is quiet for a moment, tucking his hands into his pockets. “I think… it’s for the same reason we had to be the ones to fight It. Why was it us back then, either? The turtle likes us best, I guess. That’s why it chose us in the first place. Why it brought us all together.”</span>
</p><p><span>Eddie frowns. “I don’t think I like that. The idea that something </span><em><span>made </span></em><span>us all be friends that summer. We chose each other.” He thinks about Richie, and something tightens like a fist in the center of his chest. “That was </span><em><span>my </span></em><span>choice,</span> <span>not some fucking turtle.”</span></p><p>
  <span>Stan laughs slightly. “Maybe ease up on the shit-talking until after we’re out of the undead tunnel, huh?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m just saying,” Eddie huffs. “I’ve had enough of people making choices for me, thinking they know what’s best. I’m telling you, man. After this, I’m not doing that shit anymore.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you talking about like when we were kids?” Stan asks. “With your mom?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie grimaces. “Uh, I mean, yeah, that. And more recent shit.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “My wife, she… look, she’s not like my mom. It’s not that fucked up, whatever bullshit Richie might say when we get out of here, okay, but. It’s not </span>
  <em>
    <span>good, </span>
  </em>
  <span>either. She likes that she can take care of me. I’m just… fucking spineless. It felt easier to let her than to try to get out of the shitty cycle. My life is —” He breaks off, laughing humorlessly. “It’s really shit, Stanley. It’s embarrassingly bad.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At least Stan doesn’t sound pitying when he says, “So what are you going to do about it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie flounders for a moment. “What are </span>
  <em>
    <span>you </span>
  </em>
  <span>gonna do? When we get out.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Call my wife,” Stan says. “Go back home. Kiss Patty. Tell her I’m sorry.” His voice goes softer, more somber. “Sit on my porch with a cup of coffee and watch some fuckin’ birds.” He glances sidelong at Eddie. “Your turn.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie sighs. “I… when we were all going down into the sewers to fight It, I was thinking to myself, </span>
  <em>
    <span>if I make it out of this, I’m gonna fix everything about my stupid fucking life. </span>
  </em>
  <span>I was making like, a fucking checklist. Like it’d be that easy if I just broke it down into steps. Step one: leave my wife. Step two: quit my shitty job. Step three: tell Richie I love him.” He’s almost embarrassed to be finally saying it out loud. It sounds childishly optimistic, now that he’s been skewered to death. “I guess I gotta add a few extra steps now. How do you become legally un-dead?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan nudges him. “I guess we’ll have to figure that out.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The crackly sound of Richie’s voice fading in interrupts them, and Eddie’s pace slows as he tries to listen. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“I keep wondering if… if Eddie knew,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Richie says. It hurts a little, a sharp ache beneath his ribs. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“… if he felt the same way, if he knew, and we could’ve… if he hadn’t died, we could’ve…”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did you?” Stan asks. “Know how Richie felt, I mean.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie sticks his hands in the pockets of the leather jacket. “Uh, I don’t know. I guess I did, deep down. By the time I was in the sewers making my plans, I think I knew. Or like, I hoped. I should’ve said something to him, before I died. I had the chance, I just… I got worried, you know? I knew I wasn’t gonna make it out, and I thought if I told him I loved him, it would just hurt him. Like he said, to know and then I just fucking die? That’s way worse.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What did you say to him, then?” Stan asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie cringes. “I, uh, I might have said ‘I fucked your mother.’” He waits, hunching his shoulders in anticipation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan is quiet for several seconds, and then he says, “Wow. I… wow. That is not great, Eddie, I’m not gonna lie to you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I panicked! I was suffering from severe blood loss! I just,” he gestures vaguely, “I wanted to make him laugh, I don’t know. I think I just hurt his feelings.” And then, perhaps insensitively, he asks, “What’s the last thing you said to Patty?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan closes his eyes briefly. “I… I wrote her a letter. I wrote you all letters, actually. I tried to explain… but how can you explain It? There was so much. I don’t know. It wasn’t enough, I’m sure. The last thing I said that night was that I was going to take a bath.” He scrubs a hand over his face. “So, not great either.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They keep walking. Eddie’s eyes have adjusted by now to the dim glow around them, so it’s startling and almost blinding when all of a sudden there’s a bright circle of light ahead of them. The end of the tunnel. Stan and Eddie share a look, and they both break into a jog. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As they get closer, Eddie can see that it’s the mouth of a sewer pipe, and the entire opening is covered in an opaque, shimmery film, obscuring the view of the other side. Tentatively, Eddie reaches out a hand to touch it. The texture is disgusting, like pond scum, and he gags as he yanks his hand back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What the fuck is this, man,” he complains. “Are we… sure this is where we’re supposed to be? Do we just walk through it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan presses his palm experimentally against the film. It wobbles under his touch, and then his hand presses through to the other side. He wiggles his fingers, and Eddie can see the blurry, indistinct shape of them moving through it. “I think this is our only option,” Stan says. “Nowhere else to go.” </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You’re braver than you think, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Eddie tells himself. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Just one more horrible, disgusting thing and then you can go see Richie. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He squares his shoulders and nods. “Well, if we’re about to vanish from existence or get reborn as baby turtles or some shit… it was nice walking with you, Stan.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan laughs, a real, full-bodied laugh, and Eddie is struck once again by how grateful he is to have found Stan again, no matter how briefly. He’s not sure if he could have gotten through this by himself — and maybe that’s why the turtle brought them both back together. So neither of them would have to walk alone. “Shit,” Stan says, still chuckling. “Same to you, Eddie. I’ll see you on the other side.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think technically </span>
  <em>
    <span>this </span>
  </em>
  <span>is the other side,” Eddie says. “Like, if death is the ‘other side’ and we’re going back into the real world —”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan shoves him lightly with the hand that’s not submerged in slime. “Quit stalling and get going, Kaspbrak.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why do I have to go first?” Eddie demands.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’ll go together,” Stan says. “Ready? One, two —”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck my life,” Eddie says, and walks forward. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As soon as he steps through, everything is cold and soundless, sightless, and Eddie feels a horrible panic that he’s made a huge mistake. He was mostly kidding when he said that shit about being reborn, but what if that’s what’s happening? His existence being zipped away to inhabit someone, something else? </span>
  <em>
    <span>That’s not fair, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Eddie pleads to whatever turtle deity might be listening. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I didn’t get a chance to do this life properly, don’t take it away yet. Please, not when I finally know how to do it right. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He hears a voice in his head, slow like syrup easing into his mind through the dark. </span>
  <em>
    <span>SORRY FOR THE DELAY, SON. I’VE GOTTEN SLOW IN MY OLD AGE. SO IT GOES. TOOK SOME TIME TO FIND THE RIGHT WAY. TO MAKE THINGS RIGHT.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The voice is so deep it feels like it’s vibrating the walls of his skull. Eddie doesn’t know what to say, but the voice keeps speaking before he can think of a reply, anyway.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>OF COURSE, THE ANSWER WAS SIMPLE. IT WAS LOVE. POWERFUL STUFF. THE MOMENTS WHEN THE LOVE WAS STRONGEST, THAT’S ALL IT TOOK. AND HERE YOU ARE. BACK WHERE YOU SHOULD BE. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wait,” Eddie manages, his voice coming out thready and barely there. He has so many questions, so much he wants to understand. “Wait, what —”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can see, for a moment suspended in time, an enormous, liquid black eye.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And then he’s on the other side, blinking in the blinding brightness of the Maine winter sun, and already the memory of the deep voice is fading like a dream upon waking. The air is bitingly cold, and there’s icy slush moving with the sluggish current of the Kenduskeag a few feet from the mouth of the sewer pipe. Eddie shudders, breathing in the chill. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Beside him, Stan is standing there looking equally out of sorts and shivery, his cardigan vaguely damp, and he’s squinting against the daylight. He turns to look at Eddie, and slowly he starts to grin. “We made it,” he says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>cold,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Eddie replies, but he’s smiling too, helplessly, his teeth chattering, and they both just look at each other like morons, thrilled to be breathing and freezing in their shitty hometown. Eddie never thought he’d be so happy to be in </span>
  <em>
    <span>Derry </span>
  </em>
  <span>again. He steps forward and grips Stan in a sudden, tight hug. It’s both one of relief and one of necessity as the wind picks up a bit around them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay,” Stan says against Eddie’s shoulder. “First order of business — we need to get the fuck out of Maine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie laughs, surprised to find that it sounds a little wobbly to his own ears. Is he crying again? Probably. Who gives a shit anymore. “Yeah, that’d be good. How the fuck are we going to do that? I don’t have my wallet or my ID anymore, I can’t get a plane ticket or a car or anything. Fuck, I don’t even have my phone.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan pulls back, looking thoughtful. “I know who can help. You think there’s still a payphone by the Kissing Bridge?” </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>last chapter coming in the next few days! thanks so much for reading and for your comments so far, i'm glad you're enjoying this. :) if you celebrate it, i hope you have a nice thanksgiving! stay safe out there, y'all. as always, i'm @hermanngottiieb on twitter.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>And now we've come full circle, with a phone call and a reunion.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>
    <em>Eddie</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It is miserably cold by the Kissing Bridge, but at least there’s something of a buffer from the wind. The payphone is still there, looking the same as it did in the ’80s, if a little worse for wear. Eddie and Stan huddle together in front of it while Stan lifts the receiver, smiling when he hears the dial tone. He presses 0, tells the automated voice on the other end that he wants to reverse the charges for the call, and then starts to dial a number.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Who are you calling?” Eddie asks.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Patty,” Stan says. “She’ll know what to do.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You have your wife’s number memorized?” Eddie asks, his eyebrows shooting up in surprise.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stan gives him an equally surprised look. “Of course I do. She’s my wife.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie winces. Not that he thought his marriage was even remotely comparable to Stan’s marriage, but </span>
  <em>
    <span>still. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The phone rings for a while, and Eddie watches as Stan’s expression shifts into one of anxious anticipation. When Patty picks up, Eddie can see the moment something in Stan crumbles, just hearing her voice. There’s so much happening behind his eyes, Eddie feels like he shouldn’t look directly at him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Patty?” Stan says, and his voice catches. He clears his throat. “Listen, I know it doesn’t make sense, but… babylove, it’s me.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie can hear Patty start crying on the other line, and Stan brings his hand up to cover his eyes, murmuring, “I know, I know. I swear, it’s really me. Patty, I’m so sorry.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Now Eddie </span>
  <em>
    <span>really </span>
  </em>
  <span>feels like he shouldn’t be here for this. He touches Stan’s shoulder briefly and then steps away, moving quickly further along the bridge, enough that he’s mostly out of earshot. He doesn’t exactly know what to do with himself now, so he lets his gaze wander along the bridge railing, looking at all the names and initials carved into it without really processing any of them. He remembers how Ben was jumped by Bowers at this bridge, how it used to fill Eddie with a horrible sense of trepidation every time he had to cross it. He squats down, running his hand along the worn-out wood. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fucking miracle this shit is still standing,” he mutters to himself. His fingers skip over dozens of initials that were probably carved when Eddie was a kid, they’re so old and faded. And then his finger catches on one carving in particular, and he lifts his hand to look at it. It’s a simple carving, one of the bigger ones, and it’s just two letters: </span>
  <em>
    <span>R + E.</span>
  </em>
  <span> It looks newer than some of the ones around it, like it was carved more recently. Eddie touches it again, gingerly smoothing a fingertip along the straight edge of the R, the E, and… well, he wonders. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey, Rich,” he murmurs, tapping the R gently. “Just wait a little bit longer, okay? Don’t give up on me yet.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Eddie,” Stan calls, and Eddie lifts his head. Stan has his hand over the mouthpiece and is beckoning Eddie back over to him. Groaning, Eddie pushes up to his feet and heads back over to the payphone. Stan gestures for him to lean in close so they can share the earpiece of the phone. “It’s a conference call now,” Stan tells him. “Patty called Mike.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mike?” Eddie says, eyes widening. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Through the earpiece, he hears Mike’s voice come in, tinny and far off. “Eddie! Holy shit. It’s really you. Eddie, I’m so sorry, we didn’t want to leave you but —”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t,” Eddie interjects quickly. He feels a stinging in his eyes, the threat of tears. “Don’t, Mikey, don’t apologize. I get it. I was dead. You did what you had to.” He clears his throat. “Did… did we beat It? We did, right?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Mike says. “Yeah, we killed that son of a bitch dead.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Cool,” Eddie says, choking on a laugh. He feels slightly hysterical. He’s also cold as shit. “Did Stan fill you in?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I gave a very brief summary,” Stan says. “A little hard to explain when we don’t really know what happened either. I told them about the voices, and the turtle.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Maturin,” Mike says.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Gesundheit,” Eddie says.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s the turtle,” Mike says, like this should be obvious. “I came across the name in my research over the years, it’s… it’s like the opposite of Pennywise, in a cosmic sense.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, of course. A cosmic sense,” Eddie deadpans.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I </span>
  <em>
    <span>have </span>
  </em>
  <span>been seeing a lot of turtles around lately,” Patty says. She sounds a little shaky, but surprisingly calm. “I did think it was strange.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The wind rattles down the street and Eddie grits his teeth against it. “Listen, I really would love to theorize about what the fuck all of this means, but have you guys figured out a way for us to get the hell out of Derry? I’m freezing my balls off and I never want to set foot in this town again.” He has a moment to cringe about talking that way in front of Patty, but he can hear her laughing.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Patty and I are going to fly in to get you,” Mike says. “I’m booking a ticket right now, maybe you can just hole up in the library for a few hours until we get there? It’ll get you out of the cold. Shit, I need to tell the others.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Wait,” Eddie says. “I — can you not tell them just yet? I want…” He pauses, swallows down everything he wants to say, and just says, “I want to tell Richie myself, you know? I don’t know if he’d believe you otherwise.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s a fair point,” Mike says. “He probably won’t believe it until he sees you with his own eyes. Honestly I’m kinda feeling the same way.” He’s quiet for a moment, and then makes a hum of confirmation. “Okay, my flight’s landing in Bangor in four hours. I need to get to the airport. I… I’ll see you guys soon, yeah?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay,” Stan says, and then, “Pat?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m on my way,” she says. “Should be there around the same time as Mike. We’ll drive up from Bangor together, and — and we’ll figure this all out.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Patty,” Stan says again, with some urgency. “I love you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patty exhales shakily. It crackles over the line. “I love you,” she murmurs. “So much.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie misses Richie so much in that moment it’s like something’s been ripped from him, like a missing limb. He half wishes he’d asked Mike to bring Richie to Derry with him, but Eddie doesn’t want their reunion to be here. He wants to be all the way out, far away from Derry and the specters that haunted them both their whole lives, when he sees Richie again. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They hunker down in the library, which is thankfully mostly empty, so no one’s there to give them odd looks for being woefully underdressed in December. Eddie finds himself dozing off in one of the big armchairs, hugging Richie’s jacket around himself. He dreams of a turtle swimming through an endless, inky expanse. He dreams of Richie’s face, eyes fogged over white, blood dripping from his nose and going up, up, toward the sky. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Eddie,” someone whispers, shaking his shoulder. Eddie jerks awake to see Mike is crouched in front of him, staring at him like he’s some kind of miracle. “Hey, man.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mike,” Eddie says, yawning halfway through. “Fuck, I didn’t mean to fall asleep — oof!” He’s barely sat up fully when Mike yanks him into a tight hug, all hunched over the chair and squeezing Eddie around the middle. “Hey,” Eddie says, feeling a little choked up. This whole coming back from the dead thing involves a shit-ton of crying. “Hey, Mikey, it’s okay. I’m okay.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I can’t believe — god, Eddie, I’m just. I’m so glad you’re okay, I’m so glad.” Mike pulls back, grasping Eddie by the shoulders to really look at him. “You look — great, actually, what happened to all your stab wounds?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie laughs a little. “Fuck if I know, man. Thank our turtle guardian angel, I guess.” He glances around. It’s just the two of them in this little corner of the library, hidden amongst the stacks. “Where’s Stan?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He and Patty are outside,” Mike says. “I’m surprised you didn’t wake up when we got here, they were both crying a lot.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Jeez,” Eddie says. He rubs his face. “Are they okay?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mike smiles. “I think so, yeah. It’s just… it’s a lot to process. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’m</span>
  </em>
  <span> still reeling. You have no idea how much everyone’s missed you both, Eddie.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie smiles back, feels the way it’s wobbly at the edges. “How’s Richie?” he asks. “Did, um, did Stan tell you —”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He told me a little,” Mike says cryptically. “Richie’s… he’s coping. I haven’t seen him in person since Derry, I’ve been traveling, but we talk. He answers my calls most of the time. Bill says he’s doing better about, you know, eating and sleeping, than he was when we first got back.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m glad you guys have been looking out for him,” Eddie says. He thinks about Richie crying to the Turtles song all alone in his house, and his chest squeezes painfully. “I want to see him, Mike. I — fuck, I need a way to get to California. I don’t have any ID, I can’t get on a plane or anything. Could I borrow money for a bus ticket?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mike laughs. “Of course you can. Hell, I think I’ll come with you. We can see if Stan and Patty want to come too, get a full reunion going.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The library doors open, and Stan walks in with a woman who Eddie can only assume is Patty. His arm is around her shoulders, and hers is around his waist. Stan is wearing a warm-looking wool peacoat now, and Patty has a similar coat over her arm. As they get closer, Eddie can see that both of them have clearly been crying.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Eddie,” Stan says, in a rough voice, “this is my wife. Patty, this is Eddie.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hi,” Patty says, unwinding her arm from around Stan’s middle so she can shake Eddie’s hand. “I brought you a coat.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh!” Eddie says, taking it from her. “Thank you. That’s — that’s really nice, thanks. Um, it’s nice to meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s nice to meet you,” Patty says with a little smile. “I hope I’ll hear more about you soon, too.” She leans into Stan’s side, and Stan holds her there. They fit together, Eddie thinks, like puzzle pieces. Patty takes one of Stan’s hands in hers. She brings it to her mouth and kisses his wrist. The gesture is so gentle, Eddie glances away. Stan tucks his face into Patty’s hair. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We’re talking about going to California,” Mike says. “Bill and Richie are there, and Ben and Bev are visiting right now, so we could tell everyone at the same time. Do you want to come?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stan looks at Patty, who nods. “Sure, we’ll come,” he says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie leans forward in his chair so he can grab Stan’s hand. “Hey,” he says. “You don’t have to come if you don’t want to. If you’d rather get back home… I mean, I get it, man. You deserve it.” He thinks about Stan sitting on a porch swing, watching birds, Patty tucked close to his side. Stan deserves to get back to his peaceful, quiet life. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But Stan just smiles and shakes his head. “I want to,” he says. “I — I want to see everyone. And I want to be there for you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh,” Eddie says, more surprised than he probably should be by the sentiment. “Well, thanks, Stan.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not that we weren’t already, but we’re extra bonded for life now,” Stan says. “Walking out of death together does that, I think.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie snorts. “You can say that again,” he says. “Okay, yeah, let’s get out of here. It’s time to go home.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>Richie</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie’s friends are acting suspicious as hell. First, he finds out that Mike randomly showed up in Los Angeles, which would be a nice surprise if everyone wasn’t acting so cagey about it. Then Bill invites Richie over with the weirdest text message: </span>
  <em>
    <span>you should come by! everyone will be here! and I mean EVERYONE! </span>
  </em>
  <span>Like, Richie already knew Bev and Ben are staying with Bill right now, obviously everyone’s going to be there. It’s just </span>
  <em>
    <span>weird. </span>
  </em>
  <span>And all Bev said when he texted her asking why Bill was being a freak was </span>
  <em>
    <span>you should really get over here! soon! &lt;3 </span>
  </em>
  <span>Again, unhelpful and very weird.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie wonders vaguely if they’re staging an intervention for him or something. </span>
  <em>
    <span>We noticed your Spotify activity has been nothing but The Cure’s “Disintegration” album for five straight days, your moping has officially gone too far. </span>
  </em>
  <span>That would be embarrassing. He sits in the driveway of Bill’s house for several minutes debating if he should even go inside. He hasn’t been with all of them together since Derry. He’s worried it might be more than he can handle right now. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But he already drove all the way here. Sighing, Richie unbuckles his seatbelt and gets out of the car, shuffling up to Bill’s front steps. He can hear the muted clamor of voices on the other side. He knocks, and then tries the handle. It’s unlocked, so he lets himself in. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Billiam! You really should lock your door, man, what if I was a serial killer?” he calls as he wanders through the house to the living room. He hears the conversation cut off abruptly. “Why are you all being weird?” he says, rounding the corner. “Is this a surprise party or some...thing….” He trails off as he takes in what’s waiting for him in the living room.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Standing there, in the middle of the room surrounded by the rest of the Losers, is Eddie. He’s wearing a leather jacket that’s too big for him. He’s looking at Richie with wide, concerned eyes. Richie feels his breath stop, and it feels like everything freezes for a long moment where he maintains eye contact with Eddie, unable to discern the emotion playing across his face. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Then Richie unfreezes, and turns on his heel to immediately walk back out Bill’s front door. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His legs move on autopilot, because his limbs feel numb and tingly. He finds himself sitting down on the front steps of Bill's house, and he drops his head into his hands. He's vaguely aware that his whole body is trembling. His fingers twist into his hair on either side of his head. Oh, he’s really cracked this time. Full-bodied hallucinations, </span>
  <em>
    <span>that’s</span>
  </em>
  <span> not a good sign. And here he thought he was getting better, finally, starting to accept that he could live with the ache of Eddie being gone. He thought he was getting to be okay with it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He hears the door open, the soft shuffle of feet on the porch. He doesn’t lift his head or open his eyes. He feels someone sit down next to him. A hesitant hand, gentle and warm, settles lightly between his hunched shoulders. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Richie,” the voice says, and it’s so familiar, it’s so obviously </span>
  <em>
    <span>Eddie,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Richie can’t help the quiet sob that shudders out of his chest. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span> his subconscious for still being able to recreate Eddie’s voice so perfectly. The hand on his back starts to rub little circles. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know you’re not real,” Richie croaks after a few long moments of silence. It hurts to say it, a jagged barbed-wire feeling in his chest, but he has to. He can’t let himself continue to spiral downwards. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The hand leaves his back. Richie squeezes his eyes shut even tighter, and then sighs and lifts his head, ready to see that he’s been alone out here all along.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie is sitting next to him when he looks over. He's sitting there, a concerned, sad look on his face. His hair is neatly combed, his eyes big and dark. He's wearing a T-shirt under what Richie now recognizes as his own jacket, the one he left behind in the sewers. Eddie looks solid, </span>
  <em>
    <span>real.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Richie stares at him, unblinking, uncomprehending.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So, the timeline is still a little fuzzy for me,” Eddie starts, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>god</span>
  </em>
  <span> but it’s really his voice. “But a few… months ago for you, I guess, a few days ago for me, I, uh. Woke up, in the sewers. Or maybe it wasn’t really the sewers, Mike has a bunch of theories about the in-between spaces of life and death, he talked about it the whole way here — by the way, did you know it takes three days on a Greyhound to get from Maine to Los Angeles? I had to shower for like two hours when I got to Bill’s, I was so disgusting. Anyway. I woke up down there, and — and I heard your voice. You led me out.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie gapes at him through this entire nervous ramble. The first thing he manages to coherently think is </span>
  <em>
    <span>Eddie was skewered and I saw it happen,</span>
  </em>
  <span> so he reaches over to press his hand against Eddie's abdomen, against the soft fabric of his shirt. Eddie startles at the touch, but he seems to understand what Richie’s doing. He takes Richie's wrist and moves it away so he can lift his shirt a little, revealing unblemished, uninjured skin. There’s not even a scar.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Eddie says. He laughs slightly. “I don’t really — I can’t exactly explain it. Something about a turtle? It brought me back. Fixed me up a bit.” He doesn’t have a scar on his cheek either, Richie realizes. He looks like he had when he showed up at the Jade that first night, safe and whole. He’s still holding Richie's wrist, and Richie becomes abruptly aware of the sensation, Eddie touching him, the gentle way his fingertips press into the thin skin with all his blue veins underneath. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie chokes out a breath, and when Eddie looks up to meet his gaze again, Richie collapses. He fumbles, gripping Eddie's arms, and just sort of curls in on himself, pulling Eddie close as he does. Eddie is quick on the uptake, adjusting so that he’s holding Richie in his arms, gripping him in the tightest hug Richie's had in maybe his whole life. Eddie’s hands fist in the back of Richie’s shirt, and then one moves to the back of Richie’s head, holding him so close, and Richie presses his face against Eddie’s neck and lets out a dry sob and holds Eddie like it’s all that’s keeping either of them together.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s okay,” Eddie says. “It’s okay. I’m sorry, Rich, I thought — I didn’t think you’d believe it if we just told you, I thought it would be better like this if you could see me, I guess I thought it’d be like — a surprise, I don’t know, that was fucking stupid of me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s fine,” Richie chokes out, still keeping his face hidden in Eddie's neck. He smells clean, like soap and some kind of aftershave. His skin is warm. Richie can feel Eddie's pulse in his throat. It's so different from the last time Richie held him, pressed his nose in the crook of Eddie's neck and smelled the rank stench of sewers and dirt and blood, Eddie's skin already clammy under his touch. Eddie's fingers are combing through Richie’s hair at the nape of his neck now, soothing. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t want to overwhelm you even more,” Eddie says carefully, “but Stan’s alive too.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“What?”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Richie says, his voice coming out a kind of hysterical sob-yelp. “Is he </span>
  <em>
    <span>here?”</span>
  </em>
  <span> He pulls back to look at Eddie’s face again, which makes him feel like he’s just been socked in the gut. “Oh, wow. Jesus. Hi.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hi,” Eddie says. He looks like he’s been crying too, which makes Richie feel slightly less embarrassed about his entire state of being right now.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>On the sidewalk, one of Bill’s neighbors walks by with their dog, not very subtly staring at the two of them on the porch. Richie waves at them, and then says, “Hey, you can see him, right?” while pointing at Eddie.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The dog-walker blinks. “Little guy with the leather jacket? Yeah, I see him,” they say, staring at Richie like he’s deranged. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie laughs, and it’s two parts genuine, one part hysteria. “Great! Thanks! Have a good day!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The neighbor hurries away with their dog, and when Richie turns back to him Eddie is smiling so big it crinkles to corners of his eyes. “It’s really good to hear your laugh. Not much of that where I was before,” Eddie says.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I… have no idea what that means,” Richie admits. He’s still actively crying, but he’s also still laughing a little bit. He feels insane. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie laughs too. “It’s going to sound fucking nuts, I’m telling you. Stan and I had to walk down this tunnel, to get out. It looked like the sewers under Derry. And I could hear you, talking about, like… turtles, sometimes, and. And me. So I followed your voice until we got out.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh.” Richie blinks, processing that. Remembering the types of conversations he’s had in front of turtles recently. His body feels at once hot and cold, like he’s got a fever. “I… I led you and Stan out?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Uh, not exactly,” Eddie says. He looks shy, almost, or at the very least embarrassed. Nervous. “Only I could hear you. Stan heard his wife.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Oh,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Richie says, and then he has to blink some more while he processes all the implications of </span>
  <em>
    <span>that. </span>
  </em>
  <span>“So, you heard… um…” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, Rich,” Eddie says quietly. “I heard.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s still so close to Richie, his arms sort of draped around Richie’s shoulders now that Richie’s pulled away from the crook of his neck. Richie’s brain is mildly short-circuiting. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I had this plan,” Eddie goes on, “for when we killed It. What I was going to do with my life. I was gonna leave my wife, and quit my job, and tell you something important. And now, </span>
  <em>
    <span>technically, </span>
  </em>
  <span>I don’t have a job and I’m not married, so. I have to tell you something.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Wait,” Richie says frantically. “Wait, what if — what if this is like, one of those things where you have unfinished business on earth and then as soon as you tell me, you disappear into the afterlife or something?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie huffs out a laugh. “That better not be the fucking case, I didn’t spend three straight days on a bus so I could die again before I get to do this.” And then he leans in and kisses Richie square on the mouth. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It is the most inelegant disaster of a kiss of Richie’s life. It’s not so much a kiss as it is Eddie mashing their mouths together, and he pulls away before Richie can really get his brain online enough to kiss back. Eddie’s cheeks are bright red. His fingers are still fiddling with the ends of Richie’s hair. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Um?” Richie says intelligently. “This is — Eds, what is this? Is this just like, a thank you, or…?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, you dumb son of a bitch,” Eddie says, sounding a bit hysterical himself. “Jesus Christ, Richie, I </span>
  <em>
    <span>came back from the dead for you. </span>
  </em>
  <span>I love you! That’s what I wanted to tell you. I’m in love with you. And I know you love me too, and I knew when we were in the sewers, and I was dying, and. And I should have told you then. But I’m telling you now, okay, I walked all the way to the end of that fucking tunnel and I had to listen to you cry and there was nothing I could do about it but I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>here, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and I’m not leaving again. Alright?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie gapes at him. Then he does the only thing he can really do, after all of that, which is take Eddie’s face in his hands and kiss him again. It’s better this time, slow and deliberate, and he runs his tongue along Eddie’s bottom lip and Eddie opens his mouth and exhales a hot puff of air against Richie’s lips, and Richie kisses him deeper. He would think he’s dreaming if it weren’t for all the tiny imperfections that his brain could never conjure up: the fumbling way Eddie slides his tongue into Richie’s mouth, the way his bony elbow jabs Richie’s shoulder when he adjusts enough to sling his arm around Richie’s neck, the twinge of discomfort in Richie’s lower back from the way he’s twisted to press even closer to Eddie — he’s grateful for all of it, for the way it grounds him in this impossible moment. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I love you,” Richie says, finally pulling his mouth away from Eddie’s to breathe damply into the slight space between them. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know,” Eddie says, smiling. His chest is pressed up against Richie’s, and Richie can feel his heartbeat like a steady, constant reminder: </span>
  <em>
    <span>he’s alive, he’s alive, yep, he’s still alive.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know you know, I just — I never got to say it,” Richie says. He laughs, self-deprecating, but then Eddie’s expression goes all soft and understanding and serious, so Richie sobers, too. “I thought I’d missed my fucking chance. And sure, I’ve </span>
  <em>
    <span>said </span>
  </em>
  <span>it, since then, you heard it, but I. I never said it </span>
  <em>
    <span>to</span>
  </em>
  <span> you.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I get it,” Eddie says. He shuffles awkwardly, until he’s sort of half-leaning into Richie’s lap, which is barely more comfortable than the position they were in before, but it seems like Eddie is just as reluctant to put any distance between them. “I really get it, Rich. You can say it whenever you want, dude. It’s nice to hear,” he adds, smiling again. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie laughs. He’s been crying a little bit on and off since he came out onto the front porch, and he expects he’ll be crying on and off for the next </span>
  <em>
    <span>while, </span>
  </em>
  <span>but he’s calming down for now. It’s starting to sink in, with Eddie’s face inches from his own, the sensation of Eddie’s mouth against his still fresh — this is really happening. Eddie’s not going anywhere.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So… what happens now?” Richie asks. “Like, legally I’m pretty sure you’re dead, man. Your wife had a funeral and everything.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“God, I don’t even want to think about it,” Eddie groans. “The fucking paperwork — I don’t even know </span>
  <em>
    <span>what </span>
  </em>
  <span>I’m gonna say to explain why I went all the way to California before I announced I’m actually not dead. I’ll deal with that shit later. Right now I just. I want to go back to your house and like, take a fucking nap with you or something. I don’t know. It’s really exhausting coming back from the dead and then taking a three-day bus ride, did I mention the three-day bus ride?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You might’ve,” Richie says, too overwhelmed by the suggestion of napping together to lean into the joke as much as he’d like to. “Once or twice.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie’s hands squeeze gently at Richie’s shoulders. “So. Does that all sound okay to you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That sounds perfect, man,” Richie says. “Literally anything you want.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay, but — you too, you know?” Eddie says, brow furrowing a little. “I know things haven’t been… great for you, the past couple months. I want you to ask for the shit you want, too.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie shakes his head. “Eddie. This is already everything I want.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay.” Eddie smiles again. “Do you want to go say hi to Stan now?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Richie exclaims, eyes widening. “Fuck, I forgot he’s here! What the fuck, yes I want to see Stan. Get up, let’s go!” He disentangles himself from Eddie enough to hoist him to his feet. When he turns around to face the door, it’s just in time to see Bill hastily darting away from the window. “Bill’s been peeping on us,” he tells Eddie.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie rolls his eyes. “Of course he has.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They head back into the house, where everyone is still lingering in the living room, waiting for them. Now, though, Stan and Patty are standing amongst the rest of the Losers. It’s surreal, seeing Stan all grown up. Richie’s seen pictures, even a video or two that Patty sent to Bev, who then shared them with the rest of the Losers, but to see him in person is ten times as bizarre. Stan steps forward when Richie and Eddie enter the room, and he lifts his hand in a dorky little wave.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Holy shit,” Richie says.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey,” Stan says. “Sorry, we were hiding in the other room before. Thought it would overwhelm you if you saw me </span>
  <em>
    <span>and </span>
  </em>
  <span>Eddie at the same time.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Uh, yeah, good call,” Richie says. “I literally cannot process this. You — holy </span>
  <em>
    <span>shit, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Stan the Man.” His first best friend. The person who, in so many ways, knew him better than anyone else growing up. Richie steps forward at the same time Stan does, and then the two of them are embracing, Richie hugging Stan so hard it must hurt a little, but Stan doesn’t do anything but huff out a little laugh and rub Richie’s back a bit. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Missed you, Trashmouth,” Stan says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Missed you too, bud,” Richie mumbles against Stan’s shoulder. He feels someone’s hand on his arm, and sees that Eddie is there at his side again, smiling at him. Then Mike comes up at his other side, and suddenly all of the Losers and Patty are joining in on the hug, squishing Richie right in the middle of it. It’s everything that the hug in the quarry four months ago was not — it’s a celebration, instead of a mourning. There are no painfully noticeable gaps, only a sense of bone-deep completeness that Richie hasn’t felt since he was thirteen and holding hands with his friends in a circle in the tall, dead grass, blood dripping from their palms. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay, I love you all very much, but I can’t breathe,” Stan says, and everyone laughs and shuffles apart. Richie seeks Eddie out on instinct, reaching for his hand. For a split second, there’s a knee-jerk spike of fear — </span>
  <em>
    <span>everyone will see, everyone will know </span>
  </em>
  <span>— but it passes almost as soon as it crosses his mind. Instead, he’s flooded with an overwhelming sense of gratitude, that he’s able to hold Eddie’s hand in front of all of his friends, that he gets to hold Eddie’s hand at all. The part of him that was too afraid to love Eddie out loud is gone, and he feels ten times lighter for it. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He manages to resist the temptation of curling up into a bed with Eddie for a couple hours, during which he listens to Mike and Bill enthusiastically speculate on the exact nature of “the turtle” and its resurrection powers, but eventually the combination of Eddie leaning against his side on the couch and the exhaustion from the whirlwind of a day he’s had is enough to get him making half-assed excuses and dragging Eddie out of Bill’s house so they can drive back to Richie’s. When Richie parks the car in the driveway, he has to take a minute to just sit there and breathe through the renewed flood of emotion.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie touches his arm. “Hey. You okay?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Richie says, shooting him a smile, and he means it. “Yeah, I’m just. Probably going to be having periodic emotional breakdowns about this for a while.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie snorts. “You and me both, man.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Even so, Richie hesitates again before he unlocks his front door. “Uh, Eds, just so you know… my house is kind of a depression pit right now. Like, it’s not as bad as it was, it’s not disgusting or anything, but it’s not. Uh. Good. It’s very obvious a very sad man lives here.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie’s brow furrows. “That’s — I mean, it’s not </span>
  <em>
    <span>okay, </span>
  </em>
  <span>I hate that you felt that way, but I get it, Rich. I’m not gonna be scared away by some clutter.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay,” Richie says, and opens the door. “If it helps at all, I was starting to get over the worst of it, I think. I’ve been getting better.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You wanna know something stupid?” Eddie says, standing there in Richie’s doorway. “I was kind of worried if you got over me before I got out of the tunnel, I’d be stuck down there.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Eddie,” Richie says with some urgency, grasping Eddie by the shoulders so they’re facing each other. “I wasn’t — getting over you was never an option. This is kind of a forever thing. I was just learning to live with it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie blinks at him, his eyes big and full of an emotion Richie can’t put a name to, but one he understands nonetheless, because he’s feeling it too. Instead of replying, Eddie presses up on his toes enough to kiss Richie, chaste but lingering. When he pulls back, he smiles faintly. “C’mon,” he says. “I’m fucking exhausted.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie wears one of Richie’s shirts when he clambers unceremoniously into the bed. Richie is so overcome by this sight that he excuses himself to the bathroom so he doesn’t start hysterically weeping yet again. He leans against the bathroom door and closes his eyes, thinking vaguely upward at something vaguely turtle-shaped and larger than life, </span>
  <em>
    <span>thank you. Thank you, for him. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There isn’t a response, but Richie wasn’t exactly expecting one. It’s okay. He’s pretty sure his message got through.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>From the other room, Eddie’s voice floats sleepily, “Come on, Rich. Come to bed.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie smiles, and then he walks down the hall to where Eddie is waiting for him. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>thank you so much for reading and all of the kind comments you've left on this fic!!! it's very wild that i first started writing this over a year ago and i finally got around to finishing and posting it all this time later. feels good, feels organic. anyway i hope you enjoyed this ending and that richie was sufficiently hugged. it's what he deserves. </p>
<p>as you know by now, i'm on twitter @hermanngottiieb if you wanna say hi</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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